As I lay in bed at four o'clock this morning contemplating the moth buzzing around my ceiling fan lights, I was surprised to hear Manny stir. He generally likes to sleep in. He felt his way to the edge of the bed, leapt gingerly to the floor, and began to sniff around. I prayed I was dreaming when I heard the sound of running water. I prayed that maybe Manny was compensating for his lost eyesight by growing opposable thumbs and figuring out how to turn on the faucet in the bathroom sink. I prayed my eyes were deceiving me when I opened them to see Manny in the corner of my bedroom with his leg lifted, peeing like there was no tomorrow.
It's the meds, I'm pretty sure (which was small consolation as I tried to soak several gallons of urine out of my bedroom carpet with an old Aladdin towel). It seems a bit unfair that the drugs are having no impact on Manny's blindness but are in full working order when it comes to their side effects. I hate to admit it, but I've been home less than twelve hours and am already thinking that sitting in a hospital room for four days straight with my deaf mother who loves to chat about nonsense and order me around is not such a bad way to spend a holiday weekend.
I had almost become convinced that there is no God, or, if there is one, she's pissed at me, until I opened the fridge to look for some orange juice and found myself nose to cap with two bottles of "Skinny Girl Margaritas" instead. Hallelujah!! I have not been forsaken after all!
It's almost seven in the morning here, which certainly means it's five o'clock somewhere, so I think a toast is in order. On this Memorial Day, here's to all those who have given their lives for our country, and here's to the unofficial start of summer, and with it, the demise of May.
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